


Between Thunderclaps: In Shadows

by CharmiaArkenstone



Series: Emerald Storm [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark Peter Pan | Malcolm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Magic, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), The Lost Boys (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25145242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmiaArkenstone/pseuds/CharmiaArkenstone
Summary: "She's done what she must, the way she has never stopped doing, and hopes that he, wherever he is, might understand that better than most. After all, they'd always been quite alike, at heart."
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Original Female Character(s), Peter Pan | Malcolm/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Emerald Storm [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/924531
Kudos: 3





	Between Thunderclaps: In Shadows

Nearly a year, and the letter comes.

Secreted by the princess, passed to the soldier, stolen by the demon.

Hope and dread rise up in each other’s arms. _You’re too late_ , whispers the warrior with a chill up her back. _I miss you,_ she thinks. She knows he means it and thinks him a fool.

But it doesn’t mean the seeds of faith don’t take root, doesn’t stop her snooping in pockets, searching for something else but hoping she might feel the crinkle of folded parchment under her fingers.

She’s still a pawn, pale and small, but has breached the enemy’s black lines. She keeps pushing on.

He doesn’t know how dark her hair is.

* * *

Over a year, and she lights the lantern for the first time.

It’s heavy in her hands after holding it a while but she doesn’t stop until the rowboat is safely in the cove.

He doesn’t know it’s her under the sculpted mask, although he takes a few glances, as if he can see the way her chin trembles. The ribbon is hidden, and heavy, under her sleeve. It burns on her skin.

The way she splashes through the sea under the moonlight reminds the sailors of a mermaid. Their voices comfort her for a while, until the anchor is beckoned from the sea bed and it’s time for them to leave.

It’s easy enough to pretend that the sea water has irritated her eyes.

He still doesn’t know how dark she’s become.

* * *

Five years, and he’s sure he sees her for the first time.

Since chilly docks in the Enchanted Forest, since sheared hair and neat blue ribbons, since endless dreams and chances on the azure horizon, he sees her. He knows it’s her, deep down, all along. Denial was always a peculiar prism.

She reaches the other side of the board and rises as queen, and moves to take the rook. The dark is just the shadows of the other pieces.

He sees the dark, but knows the face beneath.

She haunts his dreams but doesn’t know it. She haunts her own, too. Yet demons know much of keeping each other at bay, and soon she can sleep again.

They numb the pain in the ways they know how.

Until the lantern lights again.

* * *

Twelve years, and the wild god grows bored.

The game chances. The rook has to come to them. He loses good men to Dreamshade, packs of animals and howling boys, and knows which is the worst way for a soul to perish.

She’s been trusted, the sacred pillar in the trinity, for seven long years; no one minds when she follows him. She’s never been so powerful, and never been so vulnerable. Surrounded by the rivals that gave her ascension.

It’s an amusing game to witness, should anyone be watching. Little feet and a decade of practice make their use, but she still keeps the mask on.

And the ribbon has not left her wrist. The wild god knows she’s always been sentimental, but he doesn’t mind, doesn’t _care_ , so long as she’s loyal as a hound. And she is.

But she’s always been just as careful.

* * *

Sixteen years, and he nearly sees her.

It’s a stupid slip-up and she knows it. The thought of discovery is too much bear. What would he think of bitten lips, of bruised skin where teeth and hands had gripped her?

Too much has passed in silence and faraway thoughts. Sentiment gets the better of her, as it so often does.

The hope is hollow but its echo rings true.

More and more boys do not know a Neverland without her. Solider, saint and supplicant. And they keep the lie going, so if he thinks he can wring something from them…well, more fool him.

He sees names scratched into trees in a single clearing, the most remembrance they’ll get. Doesn’t know it’s all her doing.

She’s so close to crying, back pressed to the thick tree, hand over mouth as the sailors whisper to themselves. A beast, a Neverbird, a shadow, they never guess right.

She does what little she can to keep him from danger.

* * *

Twenty-three years, and she starts shadowing him because it’s something to do.

He doesn’t come often so it’s a large enough distraction. She’s gotten so good at hiding that she doesn’t even wear the mask anymore.

The edges of the ribbon are starting to fade. It won’t come off.

There are new pawns and she is reigning queen still on the board. She is many things, a queen is not one of them. But there can’t be three knights on one side. Then again, that side is missing its own queen. So they had to steal her.

Or maybe that’s what she let them think.

But one thing’s for sure – they all fear the king, autonomous and the wielder himself. That’s where she and the rook are alike, more than anything, for they were alike in so many ways.

They each had a side of a bargain to fill, prepared to do what they must in the name of love, and of vengeance.

* * *

Twenty-seven years, and she contemplates writing a letter.

But doesn’t. Too much is at risk, she cannot sacrifice what has taken years to cultivate. And she loves the wild god too much.

The pirate’s debt is almost paid and she’ll be damned if she stops him getting what he’s fought for. A quarter of his crew still live because of her quiet intervening. That’s enough. 

She’s starting to get the sense that the demon is steadily growing bored with that game yet there were a couple more cards to play. The deal he’s made will go out with a bang.

There are many people she didn’t think she’d miss after so long, but she’s still a sentimental creature. Magic has kept her from forgetting and there are uncounted tears for uncounted numbers.

It’s been close to thirty years since she’s seen him smile.

* * *

Thirty-four years, and the last card is played.

The board is set and left emptier. The Dreamshade and portal are his already. He’s taunted with hope, offered another deal. He takes it.

Eliminate the dark pawns and rescue the hostage queen, for the herd needs thinning. Root up the weak. But careful – they’ll be ready and waiting.

Nothing could have ever prepared him.

In a heartbeat, he knows it’s her, known all along that, deep _deep_ deep down, she’s been there all this time. There’s nothing left of the beggar girl. A warhound, storm and fire, wears her face. And there’s no hostage to be rescued, because she’ll be damned if he stops her getting what she’s fought for.

Within minutes the golden sand runs with red.

She kills no one but fights like she could. And paves the way for crowing boys to make child’s play of hardy pirates, never looking back.

She cannot kill, until he does. The wild god isn’t there to save his dark knight, and when he falls, she _burns_. They haven’t been so close since she was torn away from him in that very bay, and they both fight better than the other expects.

A jab to the gut, a slash back to the neck and then she’s bleeding into the sand. She reaches out for the fallen, while he calls the retreat, sails away. He’ll never come back.

She’s the only fallen body that ever gets up again.

* * *

Every year since, and she misses him.

Sentimentality still sits at the heart. Her shoulders haven’t collapsed yet. It’s all just bearable enough to stand tall; the wild god kept his promises.

No longer is her shroud dark, the ornament now a sacrilege on the shrine. The scar on her neck is the still the newest tribute. She looks more like her brother now. And the rook might have truly recognised her if he saw her again.

It had been the day that everything changed.

The trinity hasn’t been restored, and she knows it likely never will be. At least, not to what it was for over three decades. Nothing returned to what it had been, not ever. The bountiful harvest was at its end.

She’s done what she must, the way she has never stopped doing, and hopes that he, wherever he is, might understand that better than most.

After all, they’d always been quite alike, at heart.


End file.
